


Objects in Space

by husbandsuho



Category: VIXX
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Smut, Top Wonshik, poetic trash, unspoken feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-29 07:58:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7676434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/husbandsuho/pseuds/husbandsuho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wonshik is unendingly in motion, untamed and intangible. </p><p>Taekwoon is stationary, his feet planted solidly in the ground.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Objects in Space

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this at 2am because I was listening to a lot of my old emo ass music and decided this needed to be written. Though I wouldn't say there are any hard warnings for this fic just know it's a little bit of a sad time I guess?? At least that what I was aiming at.
> 
> Its just me being trash poetic again sorry~

Wonshik is unendingly in motion, untamed and intangible. 

 

Taekwoon is stationary, his feet planted solidly in the ground.

 

On nights like tonight Wonshik looks as though he’s slowed down. His things scattered out over Taekwoon’s dining table and his feet tucked under Taekwoon’s thighs. The way he looks at him, his fingers carding gently through Taekwoon’s locks, it holds something more than usual, some incomprehensible essence behind his dark eyes. 

 

Wonshik has a pull on him, something that urges Taekwoon to open the door wider when he’s surprised by the traveler knocking on the wood. After weeks, months, without a word from him, Taekwoon let’s Wonshik back into his life as though no time had passed. 

 

“Your hair’s longer,” Wonshik murmurs, a strand held between his fingers as though being inspected.

 

Taekwoon hums, “I haven’t had time to cut it yet.”

 

Dark eyes travel from his hair to meet his gaze, “don’t, it suits you.”

 

Wonshik finds interest in the ways Taekwoon changes, because there are so few. But he always notices them. He notices when he’s bought new bed spreads, when the house plants are moved to the other window because they get more light there, or when Taekwoon’s hair grows slightly lighter in the summer. 

 

There are too many things to count which change about Wonshik. His hair is a new colour each time Taekwoon sees him, sometimes dyed shocking red or bleached to an ashen white. New clothes, new possessions, new scars. Endlessly changing.

 

But his touch is always the same.

 

His hands, rough and calloused, they know Taekwoon’s body like they know themselves. Skin mapped out in his mind, every freckle or scar a landmark he recognises.

 

A familiar touch from an unpredictable lover. 

 

They always fall into bed together when Wonshik returns. The inevitability of the sequence of events almost ridiculous. Always the same, Wonshik’s hands on him before he drifts away again, over and over. 

 

Taekwoon resents him when he leaves, but never shows it when he returns, once again too overjoyed by his reappearance. And he doesn’t let on that when Wonshik is gone he can’t bare sleep with anyone else.

 

Because he’s only like this for him.

 

Wonshik’s hands trace his bare sides, a slow build up. Shaky half breaths are all Taekwoon can manage, already so worked up.

 

Lips devoted to the column of Taekwoon’s neck and his own hands tangled in Wonshik’s hair. Each touch of Wonshik’s lips, fingers, skin to Taekwoon’s elicits stuttered breaths and gentle gasps. 

 

One touch and Taekwoon falls apart. So malleable under his hands. 

 

“Wonshik,” he breaths, desperate, “please.”

 

He always complies, never one to make Taekwoon beg for long.

 

The way he fucks him is a crescendo, starting out so soft and building up until Taekwoon feels he might break under Wonshik’s hands. Hips snapping forward in unrelenting strokes, his mouth and teeth at his neck and jaw. And Taekwoon submits himself so willingly, his heart racing at the way Wonshik can fuck him like no other.

 

“You’re so good,” Wonshik murmurs against his jaw, chest pressed flush against Taekwoon’s back, “always so good for me, aren’t you?”

 

Taekwoon can only nod into the pillow, unable to speak in anything more than breathless whines and sobs. His hands reach back to hold Wonshik’s neck, pull him even closer. There’s less movement in this position, but Wonshik never fails to break Taekwoon apart, tears now gathering at the corner of his eyes in ecstatic pleasure. One of Wonshik’s hands moves from where it’s cupping his ribcage to stroke languidly at Taekwoon’s cock, at odds with the pace he usually sets.

 

“Come for me sweetie,” that husky voice urges, “you look so pretty when you come, you’re so beautiful Taek. Come for me.”

 

He’s already spilling over Wonshik’s hand, rasping a moan and his nails dig into the back of Wonshik’s neck.

 

Wonshik kisses at his neck through his orgasm, hips still working, and Taekwoon turns to meet his lips in a messy kiss. It doesn’t take long for Wonshik’s to come too, groaning into Taekwoon’s mouth.

 

They lay intertwined in the aftermath, Wonshik still placing languid kisses against Taekwoon’s shoulder, whispering sweet nothings. And Taekwoon feels the warmth he always manages to forget, such an intangible feeling he can hardly comprehend it when he’s in the midst of it. 

 

Wonshik tells him idle stories of his travels with fingers tracing patterns over Taekwoon’s skin, all more fantastical than the last. He can barely believe anyone could experience so much wonder, his own life so familiar it seems impossible.

 

The way Wonshik amuses him with the stories makes him feel like a child again, innocent and ever fascinated. He can’t help but ask questions, so curious about the world he's never seen and never will. It makes Wonshik happy, his eyes lighting up at each murmured query Taekwoon can offer.

 

There’s always a feeling of urge behind Wonshik’s tales, as though hinting at something Taekwoon can’t quite grasp. Something impulsive which sends Wonshik drifting through experience after experience, and something Taekwoon has never felt.

 

Taekwoon knows Wonshik will leave in the morning, the goodbye implied in the songs he hums as they fall asleep and the traced letters on Taekwoon’s skin. He can still feel those ever unspoken words burnt into his skin every time he wakes up to an empty bed.

 

Wonshik never asks Taekwoon to come with him, never leaves a note with a phone number or method of contact, no hint of where he is going.

 

But he still silently tugs on Taekwoon’s arm, urging him to fly away with him, until eventually he lets go and drifts away again, leaving the stoic man still ever rooted to his lonely planet.

 

Like objects in space its unknown when he’ll return. He moves until the gravity of someone drags him into their orbit. But it’s never enough, and he breaks free again, like he is meant to be. 

 

And Taekwoon wishes he had enough gravity to keep Wonshik there, finally, both in orbit of each other. 


End file.
